


what did you expect?

by ShipperTrash140109



Category: Dunkirk (2017)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Guilt, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, Not Beta Read
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:08:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27488611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShipperTrash140109/pseuds/ShipperTrash140109
Summary: Alex had told himself for a while that he wouldn’t go back- had to move on, assimilate the best he could and leave all his ghosts behind him, leave them out of sight and out of mind, pretend that day in the memorial didn’t happen and neither did whatever occurred later in that damn room. He should’ve bowed his head and left like a rat scurrying back into the drains. What with all the guilt and unabating feelings of worthlessness and hopelessness his head was starting to feel like a sewer anyway.
Relationships: Alex/Peter Dawson (Dunkirk)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 7
Collections: 'Hands'





	what did you expect?

**Author's Note:**

> this is all over the place, it's been a while since i did proper writing so yea, read at your own peril  
> title and song in the fic is '505' by the Arctic Monkeys

_I'm going back to 505  
If it's a seven hour flight or a forty-five minute drive  
In my imagination you're waiting, lying on your side  
With your hands between your thighs_

Alex had told himself for a while that he wouldn’t go back- had to move on, assimilate the best he could and leave all his ghosts behind him, leave them out of sight and out of mind, pretend that day in the memorial didn’t happen and neither did whatever occurred later in that damn room. He should’ve bowed his head and left like a rat scurrying back into the drains. What with all the guilt and unabating feelings of worthlessness and hopelessness his head was starting to feel like a sewer anyway. Guilt was the worst of it though, seeing those round, scared eyes when everything was dark and his mind fell bored, seeing grasping hands in bodies of water where you couldn’t see the bottom no matter how hard you squinted, hearing those damn words, a desperate plea for mercy, only to be knocked down every time a voice that was his own and yet so different. Maybe it was guilt that made him approach the smartly dressed young bloke in the memorial, soft at the edges and bright with youth and yet soured by sad, world-weary blue eyes. Maybe it was guilt that made him open his mouth, _I know you_ , and maybe it was guilt that made him open the door to that room not two days after and dive head first into everything he’d tried to forget and more.

When he finds himself there again, in the dark- dripping because it started raining and cold to the bone because he couldn’t afford a proper coat- he feels stupid, stupid and cold and disappointed, both in himself and the bloke on the other side of the door. He hates the tingle of anticipation that sparks in his stomach when he brushes his fingers over the doorknob, it can only be the most self-hating parts of himself that find excitement in such a sad situation, the parts of him that supply all manner of imagery to tempt him into turning the knob. Warm, golden skin, unmarred by battle or blight, eyes that were still sad, but no doubt awake, that turned up at the corners when he’d walked in last time, a smile that was easy enough, and one of very few such looks Alex ever got these days, once the parades were over and he became something to sweep under the rug rather than celebrate. Last time Alex walked in he’d been waiting, smart clothes folded on a nightstand, hands low on his body, busy but not rushed, doing something that had made Alex spring to action last time and now seemingly this time as well. The knob turns, and he is diving headfirst once again.

_Stop and wait a sec  
Oh, when you look at me like that, my darling  
What did you expect?  
I probably still adore you with your hands around my neck  
Or I did last time I checked_

“Thought we might get some actual talking done this time,” he says, whilst he’s not making any move to further said talking, writhing against Alex’s hips, down onto him over and over again. The smart clothes that had been folded last time tossed around now, Alex had already been raring before the door was fully open.

“Pete, nobody wants to know what I have to say, neither should you” it’s not a grab for pity, just mere fact- a clever young university graduate like him should not toil with the issues of a bitter veteran like Alex. “If you wanted to talk we’d be at a pub,” his hands look decrepit against the soft skin of Peter’s thighs, they look dirty and brutish what with the tattoos and scars and staining from a hard days work.

The blond falls forwards slightly, hair falling over his face and a hand coming to rest at the base of Alex’s neck, fingers pressing down onto his windpipe so he splutters for a moment, sucking in air after a moment whilst trying to keep up with the pace at which the man in his lap has set. He wriggles for a second or two to try and dislodge the hand, move it down a bit lower where it can’t harm him, but there’s a voice in the back of his head that’s unrelenting in its opinions, _maybe you of all people should know what it’s like to be without air, taste of your own medicine._ He doesn’t want to ruin it- even with all the self-pity in the world he can still admit that Peter’s become his only real companion, especially since he lost contact with Tommy, who likely made minimal effort to try and restore said contact once it was severed.

It’s a strange feeling, like floating in limbo, the slow suffocation of Peter’s hand against his throat making everything move by in slow motion, and yet Alex unable to truly fight it. His eyes were glued upwards- at the silhouette of the blond’s head, glowing golden in the illumination of the light behind him, hair almost halo-like. He was beauty, and beauty often stole the breath of others.

_Not shy of a spark  
A knife twists at the thought that I should fall short of the mark  
Frightened by the bite though it's no harsher than the bark  
Middle of adventure, such a perfect place to start_

The air outside is cold when he cracks the window open, slipping his singlet back over himself to provide protection, no matter how minor, against the cool- it’s still slightly damp despite having been hung up to dry in the seconds before he’d fallen back into bed with one of the favourite ghosts of his past. He presses a cigarette between his lips, his faithful lighter doing a well enough job to light the damn thing despite getting cold and moist in the pocket of his pants in the rain. Peter had dry smokes, thankfully, Alex was doubtful his own would’ve been as resilient as the lighter. The flames nip at his fingers as he lights it, but the cold manages to ebb the worst of the sting with its embrace. He turns against the sill, sucking in a lungful of smoke and savouring it a moment before letting it flow from his nostrils. He watches Peter’s shadow dance in the bathroom as he cleans himself up. He takes another drag of the cigarette just as another unsavoury thought enters his mind- what if this time is the last? Sure, he wished plenty that he hadn’t shown up today or the first time, even because it fucks his head up so much in the aftermath, but Peter was just enough of a ghost to feel familiar without feeling damning, and unlike some of his ghosts, this one knew nothing of the man Alex had sunk to the bottom of the channel.

He presses a cold hand to his ribs, he’s coughing now, hacking up smoke and spit and whatever else he’d inhaled so harshly at the thought of losing another companion. He was a sad man, but he hadn’t hit rock bottom yet- that would come when he truly was alone, and these days it seemed that blond smartarse was the only thing standing between the rock and the bottom. He wasn’t sure why it made him so terrified, being alone, when he managed to convince himself he _was_ almost every day of the bloody week, and surely that becoming reality can only be a slight bit worse. He swallows thickly and his mouth tastes like ash for many reasons.

_But I crumble completely when you cry  
It seems like once again you've had to greet me with goodbye  
I'm always just about to go and spoil a surprise  
Take my hands off of your eyes too soon_

It always late when Peter starts sobbing.

Alex must’ve only been asleep for an hour or two before he’s woken by it, horrible heaving sobs and bitten off squeaks, hardly muffled by pillow nor blanket. It hurts to see him like that, seeing those sad eyes somehow even sadder, and he pulls the blond to his chest like Alex was ever any good at comfort.

“We can’t keep doing this- neither of us deserve it,” Peter splutters into the brunet’s shoulder, curling his fists against his chest and trying to push himself weakly away from Alex, not that it works. “I don’t know why I do it- I look at you and I remember when we met..” his words are cut off by more sobs, Alex moves his jaw stiffly, _he’s dead mate._ “I’m just dragging you into my baggage and you don’t- you’ve got enough to worry about, don’t need to drag my ghosts around with you.”

 _You aren’t the only one with ghosts_ , he almost says, but catches himself, swallows down the unpleasant clawing declaration of truth trying to free itself from his throat. He doesn’t say anything for a long time, not until Peter’s stopped struggling, and his sobbing isn’t so violent. “You’re all I got Pete, you’re the last one left… I need you.”

He’d tell him one day about the fishing vessel, about Gibson, but until then he would listen, something that might’ve saved someone once upon a time.

_I'm going back to 505  
If it's a seven hour flight or a forty-five minute drive  
In my imagination you're waiting, lying on your side  
With your hands between your thighs and a smile!_

**Author's Note:**

> leave a kudos and comment in these trying times, traveller


End file.
